


like the switch to be flicked

by gravitee



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e04 Sanctuary, Gen, Good Parent Din Djarin, Healthy Relationships, Minor Din Djarin/Omera, Tired Din Djarin, din talks to the baby like an adult and that is usually hilarious, din's back hurts a lot, if you want but it's not the focus, implied/referenced PTSD, not here hopefully but still, which is actually relevant for 'plot' purposes this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29005005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravitee/pseuds/gravitee
Summary: “Right,” Din says automatically, not truly believing it — what kind of baby doesn’tcry?———[a prequel of sorts to 'there can be no oceans'.]
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin & Omera
Comments: 9
Kudos: 167





	like the switch to be flicked

**Author's Note:**

> for context, this takes place before 'there can be no oceans'. really just giving context to one line from that fic:
> 
>  _“You’re lucky,”_ she’d said knowingly. _“He’s an easy baby.”_
> 
> ———
> 
> comments and kudos are appreciated!

“You’re lucky,” Omera says softly. “He’s an easy baby.”

Din turns his head to her. “What?”

He’s leaning against a wooden post as she sits on the edge of the porch, steadily weaving a new reed-basket. Sorgan’s weather is mild, somehow even milder at dusk, and there’s still enough light that the children are chasing each other around in the grass, shouts of laughter echoing into the blushing sky.

Among them scrambles the kid, squealing at all the attention being lavished upon him. A smile swallows up his wrinkly little face, and Din can see he likes having company to play with.

“Your little one,” she clarifies, without really clarifying anything.

Din thinks he’s missing something. “What do you mean… an ‘easy’ baby?”

Omera turns to look at him curiously, eyes flitting over the helmet. She opens her mouth to speak, before a realisation seems to strike her and she visibly changes tack. Din thinks he’s missing a _lot_ of somethings.

“Oh, it’s nothing. It means he’s a happy child, that’s all. Doesn’t fuss very much.” She gestures her head in the children’s direction. “I haven’t heard him cry since you both arrived.”

Din blinks, taking a second to process that. She’s… right. 

The kid hasn’t really cried at all, not even before they landed on this planet. On Arvala-7 or Nevarro. He assumes that the kid’s never been into hyperspace before, so making the jump — a phenomenon he’s seen rattle grown adults — should have bothered him. As it was, all the little womp rat did was stare, transfixed by the blue lights, babbling quietly.

Din frowns. Is— Is that normal? Aren’t babies supposed to cry?

He hadn’t particularly thought anything of it. In the capacity of a distant stranger, Din has heard babies cry before; with their whole body, wailing their lungs out like the galaxy is falling apart right then and there. The Child hasn’t made much noise beyond occasionally cooing and whining to signal what he wants.

Omera has returned to her weaving, concentrating on the basket in her lap. Din is reluctant to ask her, but he needs to know. For the kid’s sake.

“Is he… supposed to?”

“Hm?”

“The kid. I don’t— I don’t know what he’s supposed to be doing.” 

Din sighs. He doesn’t know what _he’s_ supposed to be doing, either.

This doubt, this blind stumbling through the dark — it weighs heavy on his chest. Stirs something nauseating in his gut, a flash of frozen fear he hasn’t felt since his first shootout, so many years ago. Din doesn’t know much of anything when it comes to the Child. He’s aware of that. But it doesn’t make the feeling any less foreign or worrying, at the very least because he’s dragged this magic-powered lizard child along as a fellow fugitive and he doesn’t even know what to do with him.

He needs to be told what to _do._

Humming thoughtfully, Omera doesn’t look up from her weaving. “Well,” she says, “He is a baby. They don’t generally do much. Except sleep, eat and—”

“Cry?”

The interruption is hard, the sharpest he’s spoken in weeks. Din feels sorry as her hands pause in their craft, but he stays quiet. He’ll apologise after dinner. 

Omera looks up, her mouth set in a careful line. “Usually, yes.”

Din thinks about that. _Usually._

“You don’t need to worry,” she continues. It’s reassuring but Din doesn’t feel reassured. She must be able to tell; her brow falls sympathetically. “He’s of a different species. It’s entirely possible that crying isn’t… the go-to, for younglings of his kind.”

“Right,” Din says automatically, not truly believing it — what kind of baby doesn’t _cry?_ — before realising that must sound curt. “Thank you. That’s… a great help.”

She waves him off with a smile. “I was a new parent too, once.” Her gaze drifts to the children, now enthusiastically teaching the kid some sort of rhythmic clapping game. Her eyes, brown and warm, crinkle affectionately. “We all get the jitters at some point.”

_New parent._

Din doesn’t know how to respond to that. So he nods slowly, showing as much gratitude as he can, before getting up and walking away.

———

By nightfall, he’s scooped up the kid from the gaggle of children by the pond to bring him to bed. He was met with resounding complaints, a dozen round faces begging him for five more minutes, until more villagers came to fetch the other children as well.

“Had fun, kid?” 

Freshly-bathed and dressed, he gurgles at Din. Din doesn’t trust the little womp rat to somehow pick up his body weight in dust and mud if he’s left on the ground, so he carries him with both hands to the crib carefully.

An empty crib. Omera had been generous, offering it to them with the room. Din remembers how it reflected the morning light; just wiped down, freshly polished. As if it had been collecting dust all this time, and had been dragged out to see daylight once again. There was something wistful in the way she ran a hand over the wooden railing. Smooth, well-carved. Well-loved.

And now it’s theirs. For the time being.

Din leans over the crib, lowering the Child to the blanketed mattress below. But the moment one clawed foot touches the sheets, the kid jolts. Flinches so strongly his ribcage rattles against the leather stretched over Din’s palms, making him freeze too.

The kid whines, his blunt nails scrabbling at Din’s gloves. He lifts his legs as high as he can, half-folding in the man’s hands, apparently desperate not to touch the bed.

“What?” Din asks worriedly. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

The kid’s distress makes him straighten immediately, still holding the Child directly over the crib. The suddenness of the movement makes the muscles in his lower back seize painfully. He ignores it. 

Distance soothes the kid somewhat — his legs go back to dangling in mid-air and his ears droop from standing at attention — which is good. Except it isn’t, because Din still doesn’t know what happened.

“Is it the crib?” 

He brings the Child closer to his chest, examining the thin bedding carefully. With one hand, the other holding the faintly-shaking child, Din searches through the blankets for anything that could’ve spooked him. Lifts the small mattress for good measure, finding nothing but lint and a sparse wooden pallet.

He hesitates. “There’s… nothing there,” he says slowly, trying not to cause an upset. 

The kid shakes his head vehemently into Din’s chest, flopping one ear in a muffled pat against the pauldron. 

“No, hey. Look.” As delicately as he can, Din pries the Child off his shoulder and turns him around to face the crib. Slowly, precariously. His hands are almost hovering off the kid’s body.

He angles the Child downwards, but keeps his distance for now. Big, dark eyes glare at the crib distrustfully. Stubby legs start to kick up and down, as if to mechanically propel himself and Din as far away from the contraption as possible.

“That’s not gonna work,” Din explains patiently. 

The Child grumbles something under his breath, like he knows. The frown remains. 

Din sighs. At least the kid has calmed down somewhat. Cranky is easier to deal with than tears. 

Tears. _Tears._ There aren’t any. 

And suddenly, Din feels nervous all over again.

Because there were Mandalorian children who didn’t cry. Other foundlings who, before swearing the Creed, never came close to tears even when they got injured in training. Even when instructors and teachers very gently told them it’s all right to cry if they wanted to. Blank-faced, like a switch was flicked the second they felt any urge to get visibly upset. Some children just… didn’t. 

Another thing he hadn’t thought anything of at the time, being just a boy himself. But he thinks about the dusty stronghold where he found the Child, guarded by armed mercenaries. Not even a nanny droid assigned to the crib-pod, just Niktos with blasters. He thinks about the Client sending out the puck, the stormtroopers snatching hold of the pod, the bounty hunters tossed onto their scent.

Fifty years is a long time. And now a stone, sulphurous and sharp, begins to sink in his gut.

Arms outstretched, Din looks at the Child. Face-to-face. Metaphorically speaking.

“It’s…” 

Now that he’s started, Din doesn’t really know how to continue. He doesn’t even know if the kid can understand him, tilting his wrinkly head and blinking sweetly. But surely he must. So Din swallows, then decides to rip the bacta patch off.

“It’s okay to cry, you know. If you want to.”

Again, the kid blinks. His dark, shining gaze doesn’t falter. Din chooses to take that as encouragement.

“I know you… don’t, right now. And that’s also okay, if you don’t want to. But if you do, then— then you should.”

This isn’t coming out right at _all._ Din sighs again; heavier this time, with a longer pause afterwards.

When he finally speaks again, he can hear how tired his voice is. On some level, it feels like a failure. “What I mean is,” he murmurs, bringing the Child a little closer, “Crying is good.”

Three words. He can manage that. He can.

“Crying is good,” he repeats. As if to make them concrete here in this gifted space and borrowed home. There’s something hot and choking resting in his throat. “Crying is… good.”

And maybe three words, three times, is enough. The kid nods.

A little bob of his head, subtle but intentional. Din almost thinks he’s imagining it since the kid has made a comfortable habit of ignoring him at every turn. 

Then it happens again. The kid nods again, staring at Din with such pinpointed clarity and understanding that _‘fifty years old’_ comes racing back to the forefront of his memory.

For lack of anything else to say — and because he’s reasonably sure that his point has been made — Din says, “All right. Good.”

The Child hums agreeably, swinging his legs in the air. Now it's more idling than protesting. That’s good. “Good,” Din repeats dumbly.

He’s… taught the kid something, here. Hasn’t he? It seems like he has. Or is that not how this works?

In twice as many minutes, Din sighs for the third time. Three seems to be the lucky number tonight. His shoulders are sore. The bed on the other side of the room looks pretty appealing right now.

Taking a step towards the crib, he hopes this little chat has helped the kid work through whatever was bothering him. 

Then the kid squeals once he realises where he’s being carried. Apparently not.

“What— No, you have to sleep here.” 

Din gets a firm shake of the kid’s head in response. And leaning over the crib once more means his back has decided to protest again too. 

“You _do._ ”

He shouldn’t allow it. It’ll make for bad habits. He needs to be strict.

“C’mon, kid—”

A coo, soft and despondent. The Child pouts — which shouldn’t even be _possible_ , since he doesn’t have lips — and those big, big ears drop with the weight of bricks.

It’s for show. It has to be. He’s being manipulated.

(Dank _farrik,_ his back hurts.)

This isn’t setting a good example. But it’s late, and he’s tired, and the kid is too used to getting his own way to back down before an old man like him. Ultimately his resolve gives out with his lumbar, as it had to be.

He retreats to the bed, sitting on the edge. In his hands, the kid tries and fails to hide his excitement, a sharp-fanged smile gracing his face. “Yeah, you little monster, you win.”

A moment of hesitation as he deliberates whether to remove the armour or not. He decides to lie down as it is. 

“Just for tonight,” Din warns, reclining on his back with the Child balanced on his stomach. “This can’t be a habit.”

The kid, infinitely satisfied that he’s gotten his way, wriggles under Din’s arm. He lets out something resembling a purr as his ears lower to the sides, flattening out like a parachute. His eyes don’t close, not fully, but his blinks get somewhat sleepier. 

“Okay. As long as we’re in agreement.”

With one arm resting loosely over the Child, Din stretches his legs out. One of his knees almost pops, but not quite.

He falls asleep to the kid’s breathing, steady under his palm.

———

**Author's Note:**

> there's a line in this inspired by phineas and ferb, call that intertextuality
> 
> ———
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are appreciated!


End file.
